Issue 13

Autumn 2014


Better Angel

It’s rare to wish another
better than yourself,
a wish that smells of soup
with cumin and lentils
and a tang of chard.

Rare to wish like salty steam
of a cold noon to feed
instead of be fed, to give
even a few grains of brown rice.

Rare to want another’s
feet to skim the underside
of a South Sea pearl sky,
or for him to sniff a gardenia breeze,

without you. All the more
rare to wish him happiness
with someone else.
Sometimes even in winter
you get a first rose wish

from the better angel who croons within,
even in snow, her red pinfeather voice
in your ear, not waiting

for a return to toss her loose down
like clouds into a dark sky,
because it’s just better to sing.


Rachel Dacus